


Tender Gravity

by weepingnaiad



Series: Post Endgame [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Injured Clint Barton, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Roadtrip, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: It's the first Christmas Clint's looked forward to inyears,so of course Laura and the kids come down with the flu and Barney's ill-equipped to handle the farm, let alone play nursemaid as well.  Clint might have been looking forward to a quiet holiday, just him and Bucky, but he's not going to leave the kids or Laura to Barney's ineptitude.  Well, that's the plan anyway.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Post Endgame [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587322
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo, Winterhawk Wonderland





	Tender Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FadedSepia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/gifts).



> This is for [FadedSepia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia) who I hope hasn't figured out that I was writing this for them. I tried to be cagey, not sure how well I did.
> 
> Out of the prompts, I chose: _Breaking down during a holiday trip._
> 
> This is in an established 'verse but it should stand on its own.
> 
> As ever, my dearest [abigail89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89) swooped in at the last minute to reassure me and read through this in record time. I couldn't have done this without her. Thank you, m'dear!

Clint takes a deep breath, pulls his beanie lower on his head, wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and steps out into the storm. He huddles against the wind as he walks, his packages held tight to his chest. The weather's gone as crazy as everything else around him.

Christmas is in five days and the city seems to be caught between the overt crazy commercialism from _before_ and some austere anti-everything aesthetic more suitable to _now_. It's giving Clint whiplash. Especially when he leaves a store that's seemingly overcompensating with Christmas music and lights and trees and decorations _everywhere_ and then steps into one that has zero hints of anything from _any_ of the holidays centered around the Winter solstice. He's actually kind of annoyed by that attitude. Yeah, most everyone's had a shit few years and nothing is the same even with everyone returned. But it's _Christmas._ And for the first time in far too long, he's actually feeling some holiday spirit. Most of that revolves around the super soldier waiting for him back at his apartment. The very thought makes his blood fizz like the really good champagne. The idea goes to his head just like those bubbles and keeps him humming the whole way home despite the blowing snow and the crowds and the occasional corner protesters battling it out with preachers or carolers to see who can shout or sing the loudest.

Home. The squat apartment building is surprisingly festive with candles in most windows and twinkling lights festooning the wreath adorned front door. There's even a tree in the foyer by the mailboxes! The handmade oh-so-crooked star on top is the piece de resistance with its over abundance of glitter and glue, but it makes him smile every time he steps inside. He sees Bucky lifting little Aurora up to put the star in place as the rest of the tenants gather around and sing carols before they all have cookies and hot cocoa. It's ridiculously cliché and yet James makes it seem normal, as though this is what everyone does for Christmas.

He grabs the mail and shakes his head as he takes the stairs up.

"Honey, I'm home!" he croons, half laughing and half coughing from the temperature change.

James steps into view around the fridge and Clint's insides melt faster than the snow on his boots. He's got his arms crossed, emphasizing the stretch of what must be one of Clint's sweaters across his shoulders. He's smiling but his brows are knitted together.

"Doll, where's your phone?" he asks.

Clint just blinks and pats his pockets. "Um?"

James picks something off the counter and waves it at Clint before tossing it at him.

Clint catches it and gives James a sheepish grin. "Guess I left it here?"

James shakes his head. "Guess so," he says as he stalks toward Clint.

Clint swallows, carefully sets down his packages and quickly strips off his coat. He's suddenly very hot under the collar.

James bumps their chests together, giving Clint a cheeky smirk. "You look flushed," he says. "You coming down with something?"

"Yeah, I've got a bad case of lovin' you."

James snorts. "Idiot," he murmurs before he's leaning close and gathering Clint up in a tight hug as he presses the final way forward to tease Clint's cold lips. James' lips are warm and taste like cherry chapstick with hints of vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

Clint loses himself in the taste and sensation of all things James Barnes: strong arms wrapping him up, lean body pressing close, wisps of hair tickling his cheek, tantalizing hints of bergamot from his cologne, along with the familiar, addictive taste of him, all dark chocolate and spice. Clint can't get enough. When he finally has to pull away to breathe, his lips are tingling and there's sweat on his brow and sliding down his spine.

He gasps in a shaky breath. "If this is what leaving my cell phone gets me, expect me to never remember it again."

James smirks, eyes crinkling. "It was in the sofa, along with that rubber pizza toy, one fuzzy purple sock, and a red g-string."

"Um," Clint says, hand going to the back of his neck as he feels his face heat. "I only claim one of the four."

"Sure, beautiful," James says, giving Clint's butt a well-placed pinch that makes Clint yelp. "I'm pretty sure I've seen the matching sock in the bottom of your closet and," he pauses, pats the spot he'd pinched, "I know you don't wear boxers or tighty-whities."

Clint squeaks, then full on blushes, all the way down to his toes. He has no reason to. James likes his outlandish under garments, has repeatedly informed Clint of that very fact, usually when he's ripping them off with his teeth. 

James' eyes darken, almost as if he is imagining the same things Clint is. But instead of following up on any of that he says, "I only went to look because your phone wouldn't stop ringing."

"Something wrong?"

Clint glances down at his phone and sure enough the notification light is blinking. He turns the display on to see that he has five voice messages and ten text messages. Eyes widening in slight panic, he reads the texts and then listens to the messages, every single word.

"It's, uh, it's Barney," he explains.

"I heard," James answers, tapping one finger to his ear. "So Laura and the kids are sick and he sounds terrible." He cocks his head. "Is this the first time he's had to run the place all by himself?"

"Probably?" Clint answers absently. He's torn, stomach sinking as it dawns on him what this means. Their first Christmas together and he has to abandon James because his brother is worse at 'home' than even Clint is.

"So when do we leave?" James asks.

And Clint does a double take, head shooting up to meet James' eyes. "Whuh?"

James looks uncertain, his smile not as wide. "Um, if you don't want me--"

"No!" Clint shouts, then softens, sagging in relief against James. "Of course!" he says. "I just didn't think--"

"Didn't think I'd want to spend more time with your family? Or at the farm?" He cocks his head, his eyes going impossibly blue and Clint just wants to drown in them. "Or were you afraid I wouldn't want to go with you?"

"I--" he stammers. "We had plans _here,_ " he tries to explain. "I didn't want to assume." He shrugs, voice going small. "Haven't ever done the whole Christmas thing like this before."

"You can assume, sweetheart," James says, tugs Clint close before dropping a kiss on his nose, "I want to spend the holidays with you. And if that means going to Iowa, then we're going to Iowa."

"Holy shit, I love you!" Clint blurts out. He slams his lips shut as his eyes go wide. "No pressure!" he manages despite the volcano waiting to erupt in his chest.

James chuckles and the sound sends fire racing down to Clint's toes. "I love you, too, doll."

Clint blows out a breath and sags into James' arms. He clings, just a bit, and James takes it all in stride. Clint has no clue how he does, but he imagines that seventy years of torture makes most normal drama seem pretty easy in comparison. He's grateful, beyond belief, for James' serenity.

~~*~~

Clint hands Simone the keys to his apartment and the bag of presents for her kids and the rest of the tenants. "Oh! And don't forget to water the tree!"

"Clint," Simone says, her patience with him wearing thin, "I am capable of taking care of your tree."

"It's just--"

"I know," she interrupts. "You and James are going to plant it and it has to be alive for you to do so." She turns him toward the door, pushing firmly. "I have this, I promise."

He barely takes a step before turning back. "I've just never--"

"I know that too," she says, voice fond. "But your family needs you and your man is out there getting impatient."

Clint hears the horn just as she says it. "I'm coming! I'm coming!" he shouts toward the door, but even James' super soldier hearing would have a hard time making that out between two doors. Impulsively, he hugs Simone, picks her up and twirls her around. "Thank you! Have a Merry Christmas!"

She baps him on the head, but laughs. "Put me down and get going before the traffic gets any worse!"

He jogs down the stairs and comes up short when he realizes that James is behind the wheel. "Oh no! I'm driving!" When he turns to wave at Simone, she and Charlie are laughing at him as Rory waves frantically from her mom's side.

Simone calls out, "Drive safe!"

James just looks at him with one eyebrow raised in challenge. They could argue about this, they should, dammit, but Clint's got a feeling he'd lose and he's usually smart enough to not pick a fight he can't win. _Usually._

He grabs the truck handle and pulls it open with enough force to make the hinges squeal in protest and the whole door groans and seems to bend, just a bit. Oops.

"Fine! You can get us out of the city, but I'm driving once we're on the interstate."

"Sure, doll, you tell yourself that."

~~*~~

After sitting stalled in traffic for nearly an hour, Clint mutters, "Should have taken two seventy-five, _I_ would have."

He turns away from where James' hands tighten on the wheel, glances out the window, eyes skimming over the piles of white and the way they glow under the streetlights. Everything looks serene covered under a blanket of fluffy crystals.

"Google showed this way was faster, even with this pile up." James sounds defensive, probably not unexpected since Clint's bitched about his driving, and especially his route choices, almost from the first.

"Don't care what fuckin' Skynet said," Clint grouses. "I know the traffic around here and the longer way is always faster."

James goes still and silent next to him, setting Clint's instincts pinging. Even Lucky's shifting nervously. When Clint turns, James is looking at him, his eyes dark. "We're not losing that much time," he says, emphasizing each word. "Just let it go."

And Clint should, but he's an idiot and he's still not sure he gets James' motivation. It's three days before Christmas and New York City has just ducked a snowpocalypse with the heaviest snow slamming the Canadians. They should sit tight and wait the weather out before even thinking about driving eighteen hours to Waverly, but Laura and the kids have the flu and Barney's lost his ever lovin' mind. James could be sitting pretty in the Avengers mansion, watching Christmas movies with Wilson and Lang, but instead he's driving Clint's ancient pickup that does a shit job of keeping the windows clear. And leaves Clint's toes cold as a block of ice.

"Why'd you agree to come?" Clint asks, against his better judgement.

James snorts. "Because I wanted to spend my first fucking Christmas where the world's not ending with my lover." He turns to gaze at Clint. "You got a problem with that?"

Clint sucks in a breath.

"No, I just--"

He wipes his face and presses his head against the window. "I'm not good at any of this."

The truck lurches forward and James takes advantage of the gaps, darting the old truck between cars and trucks in holes that Clint's pretty sure no one else even sees. That super soldier hand-eye coordination comes in damned handy.

A long time later when Clint's lost the thread of their conversation and his confession, James begins speaking. "We're both working on it, doll. And, yeah, you're kind of shit at the normal relationship things, but there ain't anyone out there with a bigger heart. We're risking our necks to drive to fuckin' Iowa because your brother asked for help. What do you think I'm gonna do? Sit on my ass at the mansion while you take this all on by yourself?"

"Um, no?"

James reaches over and pats Clint's shoulder. "Don't sound so surprised."

He's still driving like the devil's on his tail, moving the old truck into spaces that Clint's not entirely sure the vehicle fits, but they make it through the tunnel, past the jam and over both bridges before James turns and grins at him, all loose limbed cockiness. Clint just wants to bite him.

"You are a menace," he says instead.

"I know how to drive. I _told_ you."

"Sure, sure, whatever." Clint waves a hand in the air. He has to admit that it's pretty nice to be sitting here with Lucky between them, the heater going full blast and the radio playing pop Christmas music. It could be worse, Clint _could_ be doing this alone.

"Next stop for gas, I'll drive," he offers, then settles back as the Pogues start playing.

~~*~~

Clint doesn't mean to fall asleep. He fully intends to drive his share and if they take turns at the wheel, only stopping for gas and bio breaks, they'll make it before the worst of the weather hits. Well, that was the plan anyway. Of course that plan doesn't count on the Snowpocalypse aiming straight for Clint as it turns back south.

Before they make Youngstown, the conditions worsen until Clint can't see the road for the blowing snow.

"James." Clint's heart's in his throat. "Babe, you need to pull off."

"I'm okay."

"No way." 

"I can still make out the lines."

"But you can't see gods-be-damned idiots who haven't pulled all the way off the road, or the people who think they can get out of their cars and start _walking_ in this shit."

James' jaw clenches, but he slows down and signals. Clint hopes to hell there's an exit nearby. He has to trust James because even with his eyes, he can't see shit.

Somehow James gets them off the highway in one piece, but now they're in the middle of practically nowhere and Clint's stomach lurches. He's got an aversion to freezing to death and he knows without a doubt that the cold is one of James' least favorite things. "Um, not sure this is better," he admits.

James gives him a sharp glance. "Nah, we need to get a room. You're right. It's not safe to keep driving in this."

"Okay." Clint's not going to argue. He was the one insisting they needed to stop. But now his phone doesn't have signal and he's lost without it. "Um, any idea where we are?"

"We're in bumfuck Pennsylvania as far as I can tell."

"How much gas do we have?" Clint's trying to map out where they are and how far to actual civilization with snow plows and hotels and _coffee_.

"We have half a tank."

"So we can run the engine for awhile."

"Sure, but the last thing we need is to run out of gas. We need to find a hotel." James turns to look at Clint. "Any idea?"

"Um," Clint swears as his phone still has no signal. "That way." He points right. He has a fifty-fifty chance.

"Okay."

They drive for over half an hour and nothing materializes--no town, no rest stop, _nothing._ There aren't even street lights, and the snow keeps piling up. Clint's beginning to get uneasy. "Maybe we should turn around?"

"You got any signal yet?"

Clint looks at his phone again and he shakes his head. "No."

James sighs, slows the truck and pulls off the road. 

"Careful!" Clint cries.

The truck slows, skids a bit on a patch of ice, finally slamming into a snowbank, with one wheel off the roadway. They're fucked.

James immediately reaches for his handle and Clint has to grab his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to survey the damage and push us out of here."

"It's like crazy cold out there! You could get frostbite."

James doesn't say anything, just looks at Clint. It takes far too long for Clint to put two and two together and then his eyes widen. "Oh, um, probably not?"

Clint still tugs on James, won't let him move. "I just. We're running low on gas and you might be fine in these conditions but Lucky's not."

"Lucky'll be fine."

"But--"

"Clint," James says and he's leaning over Lucky, dark eyes boring into Clint. "Let me reconnoiter. Then we can discuss. I swear I won't let anything happen to Lucky or you."

And what can Clint say to that? James is more than capable. He only nods because he can't bring himself to verbally tell James to go out in this.

After less than a minute, James signals Clint to get behind the wheel, then he's signing for Clint to put the car in neutral so Clint does. Then James _pushes_ the entire truck out of the snowbank. He practically lifts the whole front of the vehicle and all Clint can do is gape. He knows from experience that James is fucking _built,_ and logically, that he's almost as strong as _Steve_ , but he's never been confronted with supersoldier strength, not quite like this.

It shouldn't be hot. He should be concentrating on finding them a place to stay the night, but instead he's staring at James' lips, the way he bites them as he strains. And don't get Clint started on James' _arms._ Holy shit!

James sets the car back on the road before opening the driver's side door. Clint dutifully shifts over to let James climb behind the wheel. He doesn't even think about putting up a fuss.

"Um, okay, I think we should turn around."

James shakes his head. "We've been driving for long enough that the odds of us running into a small town if we continue are better than backtracking."

"But--"

"This road is here. That means something."

"Yeah, but maybe everything's in the other direction?"

"Then why build the road this way?"

"Um," Clint doesn't have an answer for that. James is making sense, but Clint's got a bad feeling about this and his instincts are usually spot on.

"Exactly. It shouldn't be too much longer."

"Okay," Clint agrees because what else can he do? He can't exactly explain the little itch at the base of his spine. It's not rational, but that feeling has saved his bacon more times than he can count.

His luck being what it is, he's immediately regretting that agreement when they slide around a sharp bend in the roadway and James has to swerve to avoid a fallen tree in their lane which sets the truck to spinning until their momentum is stopped by a tree.

Clint's head slams against the side window then the dash, sending stars shooting across his vision along with bright white pain exploding behind his eyes. James swears loudly and Lucky yelps, but he'd moved into the back onto the floorboard and the small space protects him far better than Clint. Still, they're both banged up and Clint regrets screwing this up because James is just going to blame himself. And how the fuck are they going to get to Iowa now?

That's the last thought Clint has before everything goes dark.

~~*~~

He wakes slowly, groaning as the room spins when he opens his eyes. Everything fucking hurts and he has no idea where he is. "Oh shit!" he cries out as he remembers James losing control of the truck and the crash.

He fumbles out from under the covers, only then noticing the heavy woolen blanket he's tangled in. It's topped by an old patchwork quilt. That stops him short. He blinks and glances around. There's nothing recognizable in the room except for his boots by an old Victorian chest under the window. His aids are sitting on the nightstand next to a cut crystal glass of water. Next to that is a sealed packet of Tylenol.

Where the fuck is he?

He takes the meds, places his aids, then stands unsteadily, head throbbing as he straightens and he has to grip the wrought iron footboard to keep from falling. He reaches up and touches a large bandage on his temple. Huh. He takes stock of himself and realizes that he's in _pajamas._ And not just any pajamas, no. He's not wearing his usual boxers and nothing else, not even a t-shirt and sweats, he's in plaid _flannel,_ with cuffs on the arms _and_ legs, his feet warm and toasty in woolen socks.

He must be hallucinating. But why he'd imagine himself back in the fuckin' fifties and in granddad pj's no less, he has no idea.

The room is filled with Victorian-era antiques, all of them solid to the touch so he's probably not dreaming.

He's standing next to an ancient Singer sewing machine when the bedroom door opens and a spry, elderly woman steps into the room.

"Oh! What are you doing out of bed?" she asks and Clint sways, but stays upright.

"I'm fine." He recognizes the symptoms of a concussion but needs to figure out what's going on before he gives in to the need to sit.

She snorts. "Men! You are all alike, think you have to be so tough!" She sets down her bundle which Clint recognizes as his clothes. Including his boxer briefs. He blushes.

"Ma'am, where am I?" he asks.

"You're in our home," she explains. "And you need to get back into bed. You took a nasty blow to the head."

"Um, where's--"

She smiles as she strong arms him back into bed. "Your young man and pup are outside with my George."

After tucking him back in, and when did that happen? She's a ninja, or Clint's worse off than he thought. She pats him on the cheek. "I'm Vivian." She introduces herself, though the name's no help.

"Since you're awake I'll send James in with some broth. We can't be too careful. Have to make sure you can keep it down."

"Wait, how did we get here? And where's here?"

"That young man of yours." She shakes her head in disbelief. "He carried you. It's lucky that you crashed at the end of our driveway."

"We didn't see a house."

"With that gash on your head, I doubt you were capable of seeing anything." She cocks her head at him, her eyes kind. "But the end of our drive is a half mile from the house."

"Oh." James carried him half a mile in a blizzard? "Um, thank you."

"No need to thank me. George is over the moon to have someone to chop wood for him."

"Wait, what?"

Her chuckle is warm, enveloping. "You think we'd turn down help from the _White Wolf?_ "

"So you know who James is?"

Her smile grows wider. "I know who you both are, _Hawkeye._ Just because we're long retired doesn't mean that we're completely out of touch."

"Retired?" He's floundering, confused and this conversation is only barely making sense.

"George and I met during the Korean war. I was a nurse in one of the mobile surgical units and George, well, _he_ worked for the SSR." Her gaze goes distant as if she's seeing her husband as he was then. "Such a dashing man! Swept me right off my feet!" She snorts and shakes her head. "And then he disappeared and I thought I'd been had! Oh, I was fit to be tied!"

"But everything seems to have worked out?" Clint prompts. He's enjoying her story telling, her voice is slightly raspy with age, but still strong and her eyes positively sparkle.

She nods. "He thought he could just waltz right back in months later and start up where we left off." She gives a wicked little grin. "I disabused him of that notion straight away."

"But he _did_ convince you."

"Of course he did. I usually get what I want," she says, grin going wide. "But I made him grovel first."

She pats Clint on the shin through the blankets. "You don't want to hear me natter on. James'll want to know you're awake."

"I like your voice," Clint admits.

"It's raising four kids and nine grandkids. I've had a lot of practice talking unruly toddlers to sleep." She steps to the door but turns back. "Now, your young man was a wreck when you wouldn't wake up. He was very worried and immensely guilty. Took a lot of convincing to get him to leave your side to rest. Be gentle with him when I send him in."

"Yes, ma'am."

Wait. Did she just call him a _toddler?_

~~*~~

It's not long before James is coming through the door bearing a tray with Lucky hard on his heels.

"Hey," he says, voice so soft Clint almost misses it. Lucky leaps up on the bed and curls up on Clint's feet. It's as if he knows that Clint can't handle his usual enthusiasm.

"Hey yourself," Clint replies, smile wide until that pulls at the bandage on his temple and his grimaces, just a bit. "So you were right."

James snorts and won't meet Clint's eyes. "Should have let you drive."

"Yeah, we're not doing that," Clint says. He pats the bed next to him. "Get over here. You saved my life."

"I damn near killed you, you mean!"

"If I'd been driving, it might not have been a near thing. If we'd gone left instead of right. If-if-if." Clint crooks his finger at James who still hasn't moved. "We're safe. There's no guarantees, babe. You know that."

James heaves a great sigh and sags, but he finally meets Clint's eyes. "How's the head?"

"I've had worse," Clint says, breathing deeply as James sets the tray on the nightstand. "That smells great! What is it?"

"Chicken broth," James says, laughter in his voice.

"Gimme." Clint makes grabby hands as he's sitting up.

But James doesn't cooperate. Instead he leans over Clint, fluffs his pillows, does everything except what Clint wants.

"Hey, babe, either kiss me or feed me, one or the other!" Clint complains.

James is leaning over him, their faces mere inches apart, his eyes heartbreakingly blue. "You're hurt."

"Pfffft. This is really nothing." He reaches up and tugs James closer. "Wait. Are you wearing flannel? You look like a lumberjack! A hot--"

James stops him with a kiss. He starts out with just the barest press of his lips. They're warm, still taste like cherry chapstick, which Clint finds quite addicting. It's probably just that it's _James._ He loses the thought as James nips at his upper lip, then slides those soft lips up Clint's jaw. He breathes out, a warm huff that sends goose bumps down Clint's arms. "I'm sorry, doll."

"Sorry?" Clint shifts, turns his face to snag James' lips. He takes his face in his hands and holds him there. "You carried me for at least half a mile in a mother futzing blizzard! You didn't lose Lucky. You found some of the nicest people I've ever met!" His voice goes a bit shrill at the end making his head throb. "Sorry. Sorry, I don't mean to shout, but you have zero to apologize for."

James blinks, the tension between his brows easing. "You still got hurt."

"I should'a been wearing my seatbelt. That's on me for being a doofus. Not on you."

"I--"

Clint's stomach decides to interrupt at that moment. "Can I have that amazing broth, please?"

James is still hovering, but at least he doesn't try to feed Clint the soup. Clint's gonna count that as a win.

~~*~~

The broth stays down and Clint would think it must be drugged for how soon the warmth spreading through his limbs lulls him back to sleep. He wakes feeling less off kilter, the pounding in his head a muted pulse, while his feet are trapped under Lucky's bulk. He needs to move. Hell, he needs to _pee._

As he's trying to untangle himself from the blankets, Lucky skedaddles, but returns soon enough with James following.

"Hey, you shouldn't be out of bed," he scolds, voice still too tentative for Clint's liking, but he does help Clint stand up.

"Dude, I gotta pee!" Clint argues, hands holding tightly to James' bicep as the world rights itself. "Unless you got a bedpan, I'm up."

James blushes, the barest hint of pink on his cheeks, but he helps Clint to the bathroom in the hallway. It's Victorian-era, just like the bedroom; verging on too much, but somehow towing that line without going over it.

Clint finally gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink and he maybe gets why James is hovering. He looks beat all to hell; he's got spectacular bruising on the right side of his face, the eye black and his temple still swollen. He gently pats the bandage there and winces.

He opens the door to James' worried face. "I can walk."

"Sure," James agrees, but he loops his arm in Clint's and ushers him back into bed, tucking him in before Clint can argue. He's a bit too aggressive with the tucking and Clint has to struggle until he gets his feet free. Sighing in relief he glances up to see James standing awkwardly, body positioned to bolt. 

"Don't leave."

"I wasn't. Just don't want to crowd you."

"It's a head injury, the rest of me's fine." That's not entirely true. Clint feels like one big bruise, every muscle in his body making itself known. But even with all that, he's paying enough attention to see the way James is holding himself, stiff and uncertain. 

"Cuddle me?" he asks and he doesn't actually mean to sound so whiny.

James' eyes widen and he swallows, glancing away before he meets Clint's gaze and nods. It's a brief moment as he unlaces his boots and sets them next to Clint's before he oh-so-carefully climbs into bed beside Clint, movements controlled and cautious. Clint's having none of that. He rolls over, claims James' chest, then tucks himself under James' chin before fidgeting until he gets settled.

"You comfy there?" James asks, a soft rumble against Clint left side where it's pressed to James chest.

"Getting there," he says, then presses a kiss to the hollow in James throat. His reward is strong arms tightening around him, pulling him even closer. He's warm and comfortable, right where he wants to be, and his eyes drift closed.

"You should sleep, too," he murmurs, on the cusp of sleep.

"I will, sweetheart," Clint hears, then feels the barest brush of lips against the top of his head.

The beat of James' heart sends Clint tumbling into sleep before he knows it.

~~*~~

When he wakes again, he's finally aware enough to wonder how long he's been out. Fortunately, he doesn't have to wait long. James, and Lucky, show up with chicken noodle soup and crackers which Clint wolfs down, hunger before curiosity.

"So," Clint asks as James sets the tray aside.

"So?"

"I feel like I've woken up in an episode of the _Twilight Zone._ "

James crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. "But the world's in color and there's no Rod Serling narration." He smirks and Clint's heart trips and his blood fizzes.

"Smart ass. You know what I mean."

James shakes his head, his smile bemused. "No, sweetheart, I really don't. What do you mean?"

Clint waves an arm trying to encompass everything. "This place. Doesn't it seem a little too good to be true?"

"Vivian and George _are_ very kind, Clint. I owe them so much." His voice goes earnest and Clint can see when he trips into guilt.

"I more meant how perfect the furnishings are," Clint interrupts because he doesn't want James dwelling on the accident.

"It's a bed-and-breakfast. It's meant to be this way."

Well, that explains it. Except it doesn't. "Who would come here in the middle of nowhere?"

James chuckles. "No one. Not in the winter, but it's pretty busy during the summer. There's a river nearby for canoeing and rafting. Might be worth visiting."

"Oh, so we're in some Stepford Inn?"

James cocks his head, does that little confused head tilt. "The town is Ridgway."

Clint waves it off. "It's a stupid reference. Just, what are the odds that we'd end up near enough to a B-n-B run by some of the nicest people in the world?"

"Most people are nice, but they don't run the Inn. They leave for the summer. Their kids are the innkeepers."

"Huh," Clint muses. "Doesn't that seem backwards to you? Aren't people supposed to retire _South?_ "

"Well, not everyone hates the cold like you do."

"I suppose," Clint nods. "Oh! How long have we been here?"

"A day and a half," James answers, shoulders going tight. "I couldn't wake you," he says, voice getting small.

"It's okay. We still got time." 

Clint suspects the only time James sleeps is when Clint forces him to, so he's not above using whatever tools he has to take care of his lover as best he can. He pats the bed and gives him a coaxing grin. He's taking advantage of James' guilt. Just a bit. But it's for his own good. 

"Now get over here and snuggle me some more. I'm tired." 

"Yes, sir!" James barks, but he's smiling and warm and all-in-all, Clint's pretty damned happy.

~~*~~

Clint wakes alone again. But the bed beside him is still warm. He takes that as a good sign. When he glances out the window, finally paying attention to the passage of time, it's dark outside. But that doesn't actually tell him much. His stomach rumbles and _that_ tells him more. He's no super soldier, but he is solid muscle so eats a fair amount himself.

There's a knock on the door before it opens to Vivian standing there, beckoning him out "I guess you can join us for dinner."

"Good!" Clint's stomach gives a happy little groan. "Can I change first?"

"No need," she says, opening the closet door. Then she's handing him a _robe._ A futzing flannel robe that _matches_ the pajamas. 

"Don't roll your eyes at me!" she scolds, but she's smiling. "You are both quite a bit larger than my George so you get to wear my grandson's things."

"I could just change into my--"

"I did the best I could but I couldn't get the blood out of your clothes."

"Um, that's okay?" Clint can't really explain that blood stains are kind of his normal.

"Hardly." Her voice is firm as she's helping Clint put his arms into the robe. Then she hands him slippers.

He shakes his head. "Oh no!" He holds his hands up to defend himself from the old man house shoes.

"Fine," Vivian concedes. "But do be careful. The last thing any of us need is for you to slip and fall."

"I can walk a tightrope," Clint argues. "I do think I can manage to follow you down some stairs."

He should be insulted at the way she rolls her eyes at him, but that just makes him more determined.

When he steps out of the bedroom, he figures out that he's still unsteady and that the stupid socks are surprisingly slippery on the waxed wooden floor. He has to hold the rail before he starts down, but by the second step where he has to avoid a monstrous gray cat who refuses to budge, he thinks he should have put the slippers on.

Lucky bounds up the stairs, the cat hisses and _jumps_ onto the railing by Clint's hand using Clint's shoulder as a springboard before chasing after Lucky. This startles Clint and sends him down onto his ass. He glances up and, of course, James is standing at the bottom of the stairs, hand covering his mouth, but Clint can see his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Asshole," Clint says, pouting, before he bumps down the stairs like a toddler. If he's going to be called one, he might as well _be_ one.

"Oh my!" Vivian sees the entire thing, making Clint turn bright red. "I told you to be careful, dear," she says, not scolding, more like carefully crafted teasing.

At least Clint's made it to the bottom of the stairs where James pulls him up and into his arms.

"Need me to carry you, sweetheart?" he asks, voice all sugary sweet sarcasm.

Clint thinks for a minute, debates, then grins. "Yeah, baby, I do."

James ducks his head behind a curtain of hair, but Clint can see the way his lips tilt up and the flush coloring his cheeks.

He nudges James with his elbow, then leans in close, lips hovering near his ear. "You like that, gorgeous?" Clint's teasing, pushing his luck just a bit with Vivian through an open doorway not ten feet from them. "Maybe later you can carry me up the stairs and throw me on that big old-fashioned bed and have your wicked way with me?"

James' head shoots up so fast, he almost catches Clint smack in the face. Clint ducks back, flails, and then slips. Again.

He's saved more humiliation by James' quick reflexes as a cool hand catches him and steadies him upright.

"You are a menace," James says, but he licks his lips and his pupils are blown wide. Score one for Clint.

"Maybe?" he agrees. "But you like me this way."

James snorts.

"Quit your canoodling!" George, it has to be George unless there's someone else in the house, calls. "My dinner's getting cold!"

"Hush!" Vivian shushes him.

Clint relaxes into James' arms with a soft smile, eyes closing in contentment as he's wrapped up in strong arms.

"I do appreciate a good romance," Vivian speaks again and Clint opens his eyes to see that Vivian is standing in the doorway head tilted, mischievous smile on her lips.

He jerks up, nearly over balances again, dammit.

"Okay! Okay! I get it!" He shrugs at James. "We'll canoodle later."

"Sure, doll." Then James pats him on the butt.

Clint squawks while James _and_ Vivian chuckle.

With his arm looped in James', he makes it to the dining table without further mishap.

~~*~~

James doesn't actually carry Clint up the stairs. He just reminds Clint that there's an easy solution: take off the socks.

To Clint's displeasure James doesn't throw him on the bed, either.

"You're injured."

Clint protests and it takes far too long to convince James to get into the damned bed, but soon enough he has his cold feet rubbing against James' calves. He rolls over, wriggling to get closer, to snuggle into the warmth of James' arms. "So."

"So?"

Clint sighs, nudges their hips together. "Notice something?"

"Yeah," James says, his eyes fixed on the bandage Clint's still sporting. "You're _hurt._ "

"The only thing hurt here are my feelings," Clint pouts. He ducks his head, tries to look desirable, gazing up at James from under his lashes as he bites his lip.

He manages a reaction, just not the one he wants. "Don't start," James warns. "I am not fucking you when you have a concussion. You're going to sleep and then tomorrow George and I are going to use his tractor to drag the truck back to the barn and figure out if it's salvageable. All while you stay in this bed and rest."

Clint drops to his back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Rude."

James leans up on one elbow and gazes down at Clint, his brows knitted together and lips drawn into a frown. "You're beautiful, sweetheart, but there was so much blood. You didn't see the cab. I thought--" His voice cracks and he closes his eyes, his face full of pain.

"'M sorry," Clint says, palm pressing to James' cheek.

After a long, slow breath in, James meets Clint's eyes. "Not your fault, but humor me?"

"You mean, let you mother hen me?"

"Just let me fuss over you for another day?"

Clint sighs. He wants to argue, feels like such a useless shit because he's letting his family down. Again. But James is looking at him with such concern and guilt that he has to agree. "Sure, but we'll never make it to Iowa by Christmas now."

"I already called your brother. Told him we'd be there as soon as we can." James drops a kiss to Clint's nose. "He said that you'd be stupid and insist on moving out no matter how hurt you are."

"I've had so much worse!" Clint protests because he can't _not._

"He said you'd say that," James continues. "He also told me that we'd all celebrate whenever we arrive. It's not about an arbitrary date on a calendar, but about the people. About _family._ "

Clint narrows his eyes. "No way did Barn say that."

"Yeah, no, that was Laura," James gives Clint a sheepish grin and Clint melts, his heart doing that crazy flip-flop that it does whenever James looks at him like that. "Her fever broke this morning."

Clint sighs with relief. "Good. That's good."

"Yeah, and now you need to rest too."

"But!" Clint wraps his arms around James' neck and clings. He knows he's being too needy, but, if he's being honest with himself and, even though he rarely is, right now he feels off kilter, the ground shifting under his feet worse than the high wire ever did. James didn't have to come with Clint and he sure as hell doesn't need to be fussing over Clint right now. 

James pulls back, not far, just enough that he can look Clint in the eyes. Clint tries to look away, afraid his face reveals far too much.

"Sweetheart," James says, voice low and a bit rough. "Look at me."

Swallowing, Clint does.

"Oh, babe, you need to believe me when I say that I want to be here, with _you._ " 

His eyes are so _blue,_ Clint just wants to dive into them and never surface.

"I--"

"I know," James says, voice so very soft and gentle. It makes Clint's throat close tight. "I love you and no matter where we are, as long as we're together, this is where I want to be."

Clint wants to reply, he needs to tell James all these feelings that are bubbling up inside of him, but there's no room for words to get past the constriction. He tugs James down so he can hide his face in the enveloping warmth and scent of James.

James shifts them, tugs the blankets up over them and lets Clint cling until he can't keep his eyes open. He falls asleep to James' even breathing.

~~*~~

When Clint wakes, he's alone. The room is filled with sunlight and he stumbles to the window to glance outside only to be momentarily blinded by the sun glinting off of a landscape of white. He blinks back spots when he hears Lucky barking.

There, coming up the driveway is an old tractor towing his truck. His very broken truck. The whole front end is smashed in. The passenger side window is cracked and bloody. From looking at the truck, he's damned lucky that he woke up.

They rumble to a stop and Lucky jumps down from the cab, James following as George points toward the barn. Lucky's bouncing around, barking and chasing his tail and occasionally that gray cat, or maybe a different one, but whichever one it is, it is wholly unimpressed with Clint's dog. And, of course, Lucky doesn't care. He's having the time of his life running between trees, hopping in snowbanks, barking as much as he wants.

James whistles, then ducks down and Lucky comes running at full speed. The only thing saving James from being flattened by an over enthusiastic blond fur ball is super soldier speed and agility. He dodges Lucky's frontal attack, only to get ambushed from behind; Lucky flattens him into the snow and he stands up looking like a snowcrow. Even George is laughing at him and Lucky yipping happily despite James' loud displeasure.

Clint's laughing so hard he gets a stitch in his side and has to take a deep breath to keep his brain from leaking out his ears.

He's still a bit breathless when Vivian comes to the door with breakfast.

~~*~~

"It's a lost cause," James opens with the minute he walks into Clint's room.

He's pink cheeked and bright eyed, his slick backed hair coming loose in places from where he tugged his knit cap off. Clint drinks in the sight of him and nods. "Yeah, I saw that." He reaches for James, tugs him close and kisses his nose. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" James' brow furrows.

"I saw the remains of the truck, babe. I get why you'd be freaked out."

James swallows. "It's probably a good thing it was too dark and snowing too hard for me to see the extent of the damage."

"Hey, I get that. But none of that matters. We're safe."

"And your truck is not going anywhere. And we're in the middle of nowhere."

James is blaming himself, which Clint gets, because that'd be his first reaction, too. But there's no use doing that now. No time for it, either.

"Okay, so we might be stuck here for a bit, until we can get a ride," he says. "Maybe once the roads are clear, Sam can-"

"Vivian and George offered to loan us their SUV." James interrupts. He's still uncomfortable, is having trouble meeting Clint's eyes.

"I think you should have led with that."

James shrugs. "Still not sure about any of this." He purses his lips. "It feels like we've set foot inside some storybook."

Clint nods. "Yeah, it does feel a little surreal, but maybe we're just assholes?"

James chuckles and Clint's glad to see the tension across his brow ease. "I know we're assholes, but isn't this more kindness than usual?"

Clint shakes his head. "I don't know. The Snap changed everything," he says, trying to put into words things that he doesn't even fully understand himself. "I mean, don't get me wrong, there were good people all over before, but after…" He swallows.

"Well, after was a shitshow and sometimes it felt like all the good had been leached from the world, that only the assholes and criminals were left," he explains. "But that was just _me._ I know now, from talking to my therapist that the good outweighed the bad. That people realized that the shit we'd been fighting over before was stupid and petty and we were all in this together."

He gives James a rueful smile. "It's why everything's such a mess now. We had five years to work on a world government, to actually make progress with equality and fairness and eradicating poverty. Now it's all up in the air again."

"Is that why Missus Stark is running for president?"

"Yeah, she and a bunch of the movers and shakers who Remained aren't letting things revert back to the way they were." His grin turns wolfish. "She addressed the entire world and basically told the Returned how things were gonna be." He shakes his head. "I'm still not sure how she did it, but I'm impressed as fuck."

"So what you're saying is that the people that Remained changed things for the better and kindness isn't such a rare thing now?"

"I hope so," Clint nods. "But it's up to us to pay it forward, even if this is a one in a million thing."

"Okay," James agrees. "We'll take them up on their offer and head out in the morning."

"That was too easy."

James gives him a secretive smile, then sweeps him up into a spine melting kiss.

"Uh--" Clint stammers as all his blood rushes south so fast he's dizzy.

"I'll get us packed and ready, babe. You just sit up here and look pretty."

Still stunned, Clint can only sit and stare after James. He's not sure what just happened but part of him feels like he's been played.

~~*~~

Vivian still won't let him wear his blood-stained clothes, but George and James had gathered up all the clothes that got scattered when the crash tossed the suitcases out of the back of the truck. So now everything's been washed and smells not only clean, but _fresh._ Clint sounds like some damned detergent commercial in his head and he snorts. 

He pulls the bandage off his temple. There's a pretty good gash, but the butterfly bandages are still holding. He covers it with a fresh bandage so that James won't get that pinched look in his eyes. He steps into his shoes and starts to reach for the bed to make it.

"What are you doing?" Vivian calls from the door, making Clint jump and then swear out loud.

Turning he swallows and blinks at her. "Making the bed?" It should be obvious, but maybe he's doing it wrong?

"Oh, honey," she says, coming up to Clint and patting him on the cheek. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just meant that you don't need to bother with any of that."

"But, ma'am." Clint tries to protest, but Vivian, despite her diminutive size, is hard to argue with.

"Don't you worry about it."

"I'm just so grateful."

She scoops him up wrapping his arm in hers and pats his hand. "Sweetie, you've done more than enough for us. And that young man of yours has gone above and beyond. So don't you worry about anything."

"But--"

"We've got it and I won't hear anything else about it."

She's herded him down the stairs without him paying attention.

"Now you sit right here and wait just a bit."

When he tries to argue, she shushes him. Clint has manners. He _does._ So he sits as ordered and waits as the hustle and bustle passes him by. He wants to get up, to grab a suitcase or help with the giant picnic _hamper_ George carries out, but the minute he even thinks about moving, Vivian is standing over him, telling him to sit back down.

Part of him thinks she's enhanced in some way because she seems to be able to read his mind.

When he says that to James, George overhears and laughs loud and long. "My dear boy, that woman was a nurse in a MASH unit, she worked for the SSR under Margaret Carter herself, and then she raised four children, all boys." He shakes his head, eyes crinkling and going fond and so in love, Clint wonders what love like that feels like. What's it like to be with someone for most of your life. For _decades._ And then George pats James on the shoulder, the left one, as he continues. "Then she raised a passel of grandkids and foster kids so ornery that you, son, are a cakewalk."

"I-uh, I don't know how to thank you, _both,_ of you." Clint glances at James as he finishes.

"Take care of yourself and your young man and make sure that you stop by when you can. Viv ain't so good with the quiet," he admits. "She loves having someone to look after."

"Maybe you can come visit us at the mansion sometime?" James offers, voice hesitant like he's not sure how the offer will be received or even if he has the right to offer.

Clint jumps on it. "Yeah! That'd be great!" he nods.

"Hey, Viv!" George calls. "We're going to New York City!"

Vivian comes up from the basement steps, carrying a load of laundry. "We're what?" she asks. "Now?"

"Whenever's good for you." Clint says. "Maybe when the weather's better."

She sets the laundry on the dining room table and joins them. "As long as you both understand that you don't owe us a single thing. We're glad we were here for you and happy to have you." She looks them both in the eye, daring them to contradict her. As if.

"We understand, ma'am," James says, ducking his head and almost shuffling his feet. Clint nods along while inside he's marveling that his boyfriend, the former _Winter Soldier_ looks like a choir boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Okay, Viv," George says. "Let them get going. It's still over twelve hours to Waverly and there's another storm bearing down on us."

"Wow," Clint says. "We didn't get very far."

"The storm came up sudden and somethin' fierce," George nods even as he's pushing them out the door where Lucky's already sitting behind the wheel of their bright red SUV.

Vivian laughs. "Looks like someone's rarin' to go!"

She hugs Clint, squeezing him tightly as she whispers in his ear, "You hang onto this one. He's a keeper."

Clint flushes, but ducks his head and nods.

Then she's tugs James into a hug and Clint finds himself moving, George at his back. "Don't you worry about getting the car back to us, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Clint answers even as George is reaching across and buckling him in which should be weird, but seems a normal thing for these two.

"Go on, Lucky. Get your butt in the back seat," George scolds in what must be a 'granddad' voice because Lucky immediately complies something he never does for Clint. He's gone before James opens the driver side door.

Then they're on the road, driving into the bright sunshine, the road in front of them clear.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the third iteration of my attempted fills for the prompts. The first fell flat, the second, after 4k, was too large and far too plotty for me to finish in time. I hope to still finish that one.
> 
> The title for this is from the poem, _Kindness_ , by Naomi Shihab Nye. It's fabulous and really and truly reminds me of the Clint from this 'verse who's been through so much. Read it [Here.](https://poets.org/poem/kindness) I highly recommend it!
> 
> Lastly, this fills my Clint Barton Bingo square: _kindness._


End file.
